


The Wednesday After Next

by mimble



Series: On Thursdays series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Busking, Children, Gen, Homeless AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:03:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimble/pseuds/mimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of "On Thursdays" </p><p> </p><p>  <i>The boy is alone today; he is standing opposite Speedy’s café and has been since early morning. The broken string of the violin has been replaced and he’s bowing at it cautiously, drawing out gentle melodies to please the ears of the passers-by</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wednesday After Next

The boy is alone today; he is standing opposite Speedy’s café and has been since early morning. The broken string of the violin has been replaced and he’s bowing at it cautiously, drawing out gentle melodies to please the ears of the passers-by. He has not been very successful so far, with only a few coins to show for the several hours’ work he has put into earning his living. However improved the violin appears to be, the same cannot be said for the child. His curls are a little longer, almost reaching the wide eyes framed by darker circles than before. His face is thinner, hell, all of him is thinner and the long, ratty coat he has on offers no protection against the late November breeze. His posture is perfect as ever but in the short pauses between phrases he can’t help but shiver as the wind picks up the back of his coat.

His case is somewhat worse for wear as well, with one of the two buckles missing. It’s been replaced by deep scratches that have been gouged into the leather and smudged the initials that are chalked onto the side, it’s as if the case had been knocked against something recently, maybe the boy has been in an accident? The remaining catch reflects the light filtering down past the tall buildings where it’s been flicked open. The dirty coppers in the bottom clink dully whenever the case is knocked by someone walking by, the boy scowl at them and plays on. Quaver after quaver, followed by an upper mordent that falls into the imperfect cadence to take him back to the start. He can play well, his focus is solely on his instrument and it shows, the technique is ingrained in his head, down his shoulders and into his arms and fingers.

Semiquaver, trill, a double stopped fifth held for a beat before the race begins again, quaver falling over semiquaver over crotchet rests and syncopated rhythms.

Its early afternoon before John Watson spots the boy. He’d gone out for some shopping earlier and missed him as the tall crowds bustling past had blocked John’s view. Now though, on his way back, he can see the dark haired boy from the end of the street. John drops the shopping on the floor of the flat and digs around in one of the bags for something to give to him. Packeted sandwich procured, he returns to the street and crosses over the road. He listens for a few minutes and then drops the sandwich and a five pound note in the case,

“How’s your brother? I haven’t seen him around here for a while,” The boy ignores him fastidiously and plays on. Melodic minor ascending scale in straight quavers, major descending scale in triplets. John sighs and spares another glance at the almost empty case before crossing back over the street to put away his gradually warming milk and other groceries.

The boy plays until it gets dark, at about 4pm, and then for an hour or two longer. John can hear the melodies bleeding through the front windows and wall as he makes his tea, eats his lunch and washes up. He almost misses when the boy stops playing, so wrapped up in the soft music surrounding him that he barely notices when it tails off to nothing and the sounds of street filter back in.

Its only when he glances out of the window that he sees the boy counting the money and packing his instrument away. John abandons his fresh cup of tea on the coffee table in favour of pulling on his shoes and coat so that he can follow the boy to wherever he and his brother are hiding out. It’d be two weeks tomorrow since he last saw the two boys around town, not just on Baker street, and the elder one definitely hadn’t been healthy then, if he couldn’t accompany his brother today then surely he must be worse? John couldn’t very well leave them, he wasn’t a practicing doctor, but he hadn’t studied and trained to leave two boys to suffer the harshness of the current winter when he had the tools to help them.

John hurries down the stairs, forgoing his cane, the phantom pain in his leg has vanished for now. He catches up with the boy as he crosses at Park road and starts heading towards the outer circle. John almost loses him a few times in the crowds but spots him again as they both reach the main road. John looks around for a crossing nearby and starts to head towards it, expecting the boy to follow him this time. However, the child waits at the edge of the road, watching intently as the cars and taxis rush past. He bobs on his toes, violin case bumping against the side of his legs as he watches for a break in the traffic. John watches and scarcely breathes when the boy makes a dash for it in a gap between cars and taxis. He makes it across without injury, _thank god._

He then attempts to vault over the fence on the edge of the pavement. With the bulky violin case, he struggles to get over and ends up kicking his legs into mid-air trying to get to the other side. He manages eventually and stumbles slightly when he lands; he looks around, brushes his coat off and continues down the road to an entrance for Regents Park. John follows him, hissing slightly when he lands on his bad leg as he jumps over the metal fencing.

They make it to the park entrance without further incident; the boy weaves in and out of the pedestrians without a problem. John shoulders through them, throwing apologies here and there, he isn’t as stealthy as he’d like to be. The boy takes a left as they enter the park and heads off into the darkness. John follows, but meanders from side to side, looking at the various plants and trees so as to make it less obvious he is following him. They boy takes a right and another left in quick succession; John sits on a nearby bench to try and increase the distance between them a little. The lights from the road are mostly blocked by the trees at this point, and the light that has managed to seep through is weak, barely lighting the path ahead and dappling the dark green leaves with an eerie glow. John gets up again and follows the path around the corner and to where the boy was headed.

He follows the boy for another hundred yards or so down the path, there aren’t many people about at this time of year and so it isn’t difficult, John pulls his coat close and squints ahead. The boy seems unbothered by the chill and has stopped a further way along the path, staring intently at one of the trees on the left. John carries on walking, unsure of how to continue following him without making it obvious that he is. The boy solves this problem for him however, for when John goes to pass the boy, he takes a deep breath and calls out, “I know you’re following me, I’m not stupid.” He spins around, leaving his case on the floor beside him, to face his adversary. He startles at the sight of John, perhaps he was expecting someone else, but a foe is a foe and the boy draws himself up to his full height to face him,

“I know you’re following me,” he repeats quickly. He has screwed his face up now, as if expecting a blow; his shoulders are hunched protectively, he takes another measured breath and slowly relaxes his shoulders down. When he glances up, he wobbles slightly and John reaches out to steady him, the boy’s eyes widen comically and he shuffles to pick up his violin case, to hug it to his chest as if it were a shield, he speaks again, “You can have your money back, it’s just in my case, I can get it out for you in just a moment. Please, I’m sorry, I should have known-“

“Shh,” John has crouched down in front of him, “I don’t want the money back, it’s okay-“

The boy frowns at him, “Of course you want the money back,” he says plaintively, “You’re a retired army pensioner with no other income; I should have seen it. No one ever gives us notes, I should have known, Mycroft would have known what to do, he would have sorted it.”

John sighs, “I really don’t want the money back, it’s yours now, and you need it more than me. Mycroft’s your brother, right? What about you, what’s your name?” John reaches an arm out to steady himself in his crouched position but accidently brushes against the boy’s hand; he visibly flinches and shrinks even further behind the case before stopping short, shaking his head to clear it, and placing his violin case back on the ground,

“I’m Sherlock, not that it’s any of your business.” He’s pulled this steely mask from thin air, hidden behind it so quickly and efficiently that John can’t be sure whether or not the boy he was talking to a minute ago is the real Sherlock, or if this one is. The only clue he has is the slight tremor in the child’s left hand, as if it were itching to pick at something, his violin perhaps. 

“Have you got your brother back there?” Sherlock’s lips press into a thin line, “It’s alright, you don’t have to tell me. It’s just; last I saw of him, he was looking pretty rough, and I don’t expect he’s much better now, is he?” Sherlock’s lips press even tighter still,

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my brother is perfectly alright. He just had other business to attend to today.” Sherlock is inching closer to his case again; his hands have been stuffed in his pockets to hide his shaking, “And even if he were ill, it’s not like we can just parade into a hospital. Two unaccompanied minors wandering the streets of London? Social services would be on us in minutes,” he scowls again, he hadn’t meant to give that away, “Not that he is ill, of course.”

“Please, your brother needs medical attention. I’m not saying you have to go to the hospital. I’m a doctor; you can both stay at my flat while Mycroft recovers,” John doesn’t mean to say that, but he’s desperate, he cannot leave these two children out in the cold over winter, it’s only going to get colder from now on. He hopes Mrs Hudson doesn’t mind.  
Sherlock looks up at his comment, hopeful longing crosses his face and he starts to reply before he is cut off by a stifled cough coming from somewhere off the path. He stops and bites his lip, looking over to the trees and then back to John. The cough sounds again. Sherlock takes a hand out of his pocket to pick up his violin and makes to leave, John reaches out to grab hold of the boy’s coat,

“Sherlock-“

“Come back tomorrow,” he interrupts, “I’ll ask Mycroft, but he won’t want to move tonight, not when its dark, he’s far too lazy to be up at this hour anyway. Come back tomorrow, I’ll be in the park all day. Mycroft won’t want me to leave him after today; I snuck out while he was asleep this morning so I could get us some money. Don’t worry about that though, just remember to come back tomorrow and I’ll remember to ask Mycroft.”

Small hands push at him then, nudging his stomach and arms, turning him around and propelling him towards the streetlamps marking the road, “Now you just wait here,” he starts to say and turns back but Sherlock has vanished into the line of trees behind them, and Doctor Watson is left alone in the dark, quite unsure of what just happened.


End file.
